Sanctity
by xxfatal
Summary: In a world of souls, the heart is sometimes forgotten. A collection of unrelated vignettes. Mostly SoulxMaka, but not exclusive to. Chapter 16: Basketball is his game. At least, until she makes it hers.
1. Cover: Soul, Maka

**A/N:** A _Soul Eater_ project, consisting of a series of unrelated (hopefully brief) vignettes.

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_, and am making no profit from this fanfiction. All genius belongs to Atsushi Okubo.

**Sanctity**

x

**Cover**

"Soul, which one? Blue or purple?"

Soul glanced over disinterestedly. Did he really have to choose? "Do you even have to ask?"

Maka cast a dark, hawkish look at him with her mucus-green eyes. Soul returned her look squarely and unaffectedly, half-wondering what she had it in her heart to do. After a while, her eyes narrowed, then slid back over to the rack. "Pink, then."

Soul was ruffled. "Blue."

"No, I already chose. Too bad."

"Makaaa."

Maka sniffed imperiously. "I gave you the courtesy of choosing, but since you didn't take advantage of it, you're just going to have to live with a new, pink jacket."

"Why do I even need a new one?"

She frowned, as if the answer was plain to her. "Your old one is getting too small." As if to emphasize her observation, she plucked the faded, yellow sleeve, and nodded.

"It's not. And I'm not wearing that, even if you buy it, Maka."

Maka puckered, then sourly returned the pink jacket to its proper place and picked up the blue one. She flipped her pigtails back at him and angrily, wordlessly stomped up to the cash register.

"Thanks, Maka."

* * *

"Well?" Maka began, blinking at him expectantly.

Soul looked up from the television set, blinking back. "Well, what?"

She dangled the jacket in front of him. "Aren't you going to try it on now?" Rather unenthused, but having nothing better to do, Soul accepted the garment and pulled off his tattered, yellow one. Maka watched as his old coat floated to the couch, looking flat and defeated. She could see all the small, makeshift mends and repairs she had made on it. It looked squished now, but they had gone through a lot with that jacket of Soul's.

"Maka."

She glanced up from her bout of nostalgia. Soul was holding his arms up, displaying the jacket as if he were a storefront mannequin. "How does it look?"

_Out of place._ "Looks good," she said, a little less cheerful than she should have been.

"Okay." Soul shrugged it off, tossed it back to her, and pulled on his old one. She clutched the blue garb as she watched Soul plop back onto the sofa and resume watching television, wearing his yellow like an old friend.

Maka mumbled something to Soul about washing the rest of the dishes before retreating to her room. She fumbled around for the bag and neatly folded the merchandise in. Tomorrow, she was going to return it.

She'd get him a tailor-made one. Maybe with patches of the old one in it.

_fin._


	2. Peace: Chrona

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_, and am making no profit from this fanfiction.

**Peace**

Chrona rocked back and forth on her heels, watching the dark landscape splay out before her. Her large, sleep-deprived eyes scanned the bleakness. Alone.

She drew her knees up to her chest and buried her contorted face into them, slowly rocking. Back, forth, back, forth . . .

"Please be quiet."

_Shut up, Chrona._

"I just want some quiet, please."

_No!_

"Please, Ragnarok."

_You should be quiet, Chrona!_

She buried her face in further, unable to force herself to say more. She was so tired of fighting him.

_Don't ignore me!_

"I just want a little peace and quiet," she strained her voice weakly. Please, please, please.

_Stop saying things like that, Chrona!_

"I want to be alone for a little."

_You're never alone, Chrona! Never, never!_

A tear dripped down her sallow face. "I know." She clutched her arms tightly and tried to sleep.

_fin._


	3. That Phonograph: Soul

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_, and am making no profit from this fanfiction.

**That Phonograph**

He heard it again. That awful, staticky music. He knew he was in that room again.

More than once he had tried to silence the faulty phonograph. It would be very quiet. But it wouldn't matter, because that little, horned demon would come tapping in, anyway. His scraggly dancing would be made all the more eerie with the lack of cheap accompaniment.

Soul wasn't scared, per se. But he wished that sneaky, suited apparition would leave him alone. He didn't want to listen to his oily solicitations anymore.

* * *

_Don't you want it?_

"You again?"

_Power._

"I'm fine in this room."

The red-skinned imp was stronger than he looked.

_Come with me._

"I don't want to go in there."

_You could be stronger._

He didn't know how to get rid of him. He already tried going in that room. He wasn't scared.

"What about Maka?"

That ghastly grin would appear again. **_Who's Maka?_**

He wasn't scared.

_fin._


	4. Liniment: Soul, Maka

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_, and am making no profit from this fanfiction.

**Liniment**

"Papa is so happy!" spouted Death Scythe, leaning over to hug his kind, self-sacrificing daughter.

"This isn't for you," she deadpanned, moving the bag out of his reach. But, letting her detached concern get the better of her, asked: "You're hurt?"

"Well, it's just a scrape, but, Maka, it's the thought that counts! That's why your Papa is so happy!"

Maka nimbly side-stepped out of proximity, letting her father land unceremoniously onto the sidewalk. "I told you; it's not for you. It's for Soul."

It stung him, to be so mercilessly struck down by his own daughter, but he was still proud of her. Maka was so much like her mother, caring for other people more than herself. It made him want to tear up a little, almost.

"Bye, I'm going home."

"Makaa!"

* * *

Maka slid the key into the lock and deftly opened the door. She popped her head in first, taking in the noiseless environment of the apartment, before slipping in.

"Soul?" Maka stopped, lowering the bag in her hand. He was sleeping. She slowly approached the couch. He looked peaceful, as if he wasn't bothered by the long, stretching scar on his chest at all. She bit her bottom lip, tensing at the memory. The package of salve dropped to the table.

He shouldn't have done it. It would have been better if she paid for the fatal mistake she had made in fighting Chrona. _'It's not your fault. You shouldn't have to pay for it, Soul.'_

Maka released a sigh. She shouldn't have been thinking about these things. She knew it flustered him when she looked as guilty as she did now. She walked into the kitchen, flipping on the switch as she went. The room was instantly bathed in light, illuminating the grand pile of dishes yet to be washed, stacked high in the sink.

* * *

Maka was nearly finished when Soul woke up.

"Maka?"

She glanced over her shoulder. "Awake?"

Soul straightened up, then took notice of the brown paper bag sitting on the table. "What's this?"

"Um . . ." Maka turned off the faucet, then carefully dried her hands. By the time Maka had composed herself enough to turn around, she realized with alarm that Soul had unscrewed the cap of the small, round container and was sniffing it. "Soul," she snapped, regaining herself enough to snatch it from him, "it's ointment."

He glanced up at her, eyes penetrating. "What for?"

"You got that cut today, remember?" She sounded downcast. She always sounded like that whenever he got hurt, even just a little. "I was hoping this would help it heal up faster."

"Alright," he said, taking it from her, "thanks, Maka."

Taking the lid, Soul proceeded to cap the salve when Maka scowled. "Aren't you going to use it?"

"Uhh . . ." One look into her steadfast, green eyes told him all he needed to know. "Okay." It wasn't unsettling, but neither was it comfortable, to have her watching him so intently as he pulled off his shirt and tried to apply the liniment as hastily as possible. The gash he'd received today from a particularly tough fight was cut perpendicularly right next to his old, stitched-up scar. It was small in comparison, but nearly as painful as a paper-cut, neatly stamped there right above his belly button. He was one teeth-grit away from Maka doing it for him.

"Hss, ouch."

"Soul, you're hurting yourself. Here, let me do it."

"Aah, no, that's—"

Maka ignored him and knelt to the floor. She carefully dabbed the ointment onto his skin, wary not to further tear or rip the laceration. In two swabs, she was done, but she couldn't help stare at the scar on this chest as her fingers ghosted over it. She wondered how bad it hurt when it happened. How much pain she'd have to endure before she got her fair share.

Her eyes narrowed slightly at it, before lowering to the ground. She was truly selfish. She'd gotten this salve to ease her own guilt. She was deceiving herself, thinking that if the evidence of her blunders faded away, so would the transgression itself. She was deceiving herself, yet she still wondered how long it would really take until Soul's scar was like his skin.

"Sorry, Soul."

"Hm? Naah, Maka, I got this cut myself. You shouldn't have to do things like this for me."

Her palm was still on his scar, and finally, her eyes traveled up to meet his. Her pair of greens momentarily dilated upon seeing how close he was from her face, or perhaps, she thought, how close _she_ was to _his_ face. "Hey, Soul," she spoke quietly, "we'll get hurt together from now on, okay?"

He blinked at her, honestly confused. "Maka—"

"MAKA!" The door practically exploded upon impact. "Papa's here for dinner!" Death Scythe's exuberant expression suddenly drained from his face as he beheld his precious, innocent daughter in a position of questionable motives kneeling before one Soul Eater Evans: hand on him, faces close.

"AAAAH! MAKA, PAPA WILL SAVE YOU!"

"PAPA!"

_fin._

**A/N:** This has been in my computer for ages. Was finally provoked enough to post it. Wouldn't have been possible without the very sweet **kalasad** and ten times wonderful **dark hope assassin**. ;3


	5. The Piano Room: Maka

**A/N:** I have recently joined the **42_souls** prompt community on LJ for the insatiable pairing: SoulMaka. Thus begins my journey. Wish me luck. And apologies in advance for the odd formatting of this particular vignette; I needed to differentiate.

Themes: 7) _Closure_; 15) _December/The End_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**The Piano Room**

She had been waiting in the Piano Room for a long time.

The imp strode up to her, his shadow inking out of the wall's. "Hello."

"I've been waiting for a long time," she said. "Where's Soul?"

The imp smiled at her, and glanced down once at the gnarled hands he had stuffed in his pockets. "Who, now?"

"I'm waiting for Soul," she said, a twinge of impatience edging her tone. "I'm looking for Soul."

"Soul?" he repeated, taking his sweet time, and looked down again at his pockets.

"Yes," she replied. "Soul."

"He's not here," the Imp informed her.

"I've been waiting."

"He's not coming." The imp sat down at the piano, watching her from across the dark and silent room.

"He knows. I've been waiting," she challenged, staring intently back, her hands folded in her lap.

"He's not coming," the imp repeated calmly, taking his fingers from his pocket and trailing the ghastly thing across the ivory keys.

"That's Soul's piano."

"It doesn't matter." The imp grinned. "He's not coming."

"I've been waiting."

"He's never coming," said the Imp. "You know that."

She bit her lip tightly.

"You know that."

She'd been waiting for a long time.

"You've known that," he sang again, and danced out of the room.

_fin._


	6. Socks and Things: Soul, Maka

Themes: 9) _Second Glance_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**Socks and Things**

It had been a standing tradition not to open presents when the other was around on Christmas day.

Maka picked up the last wrapped box sitting beneath the tree. With a broom in one hand, she gave it a surreptitious little test shake with the other. Nothing. _Nothing?_ He'd gotten her _nothing?_ What kind of joke was that? Her fist clenched, but she forced herself to take a controlled, even breath. She couldn't jump to conclusions. Yet. She attempted to gently set it aside while she dealt with the mess of pine needles on the floor. It hit the flat end of the coffee table with a slam.

Slowly, she scraped the broom thistles across, gathering the scattered green into a neat, cumulative pile, decidedly not giving a second thought to the careless empty box behind her. It was actually kind of rude, really. _She'd_ given him something, as she did every year. On what grounds did he suddenly choose not to get her anything this year? Was it—was it because she wasn't a good partner? Her knuckles tightened white. That couldn't be true. Could it?

_No. No way,_ she asserted ruefully. Her eyes zeroed in on the stacks of brown-tipped needles and she huffily scooped them up and dumped them in the trash bin. She snapped her head back to look at the ornamented Douglas fir. She'd get Soul to take it out himself. Her mouth furrowed down. But the least she could do was put away all the delicate globes of color; he'd probably break them. She knelt down and set to work. Every glass ornament went carefully wrapped in tissue paper then set into their Christmas box for next year. She heaved the bulky box into her arms and carried it to the ajar closet. Then, Maka dusted her hands and surveyed the room. Basically spotless.

She went almost reluctantly to the single gift hunkered down on the table, her doleful eyes watching it. She sat down on the couch and pulled it into her lap. She flipped the tag and read: "To Maka. From Soul." She pursed her lips. She'd gotten him a chocolate fondue set. She knew how much he liked sweets. And there was no way he could mess that up, so it was a relatively safe endeavor. He must have already gotten her gift by now; it wasn't sitting up against the bark anymore.

The first year, they'd gotten each other a pair of socks because they really didn't know what to get each other. And socks were safe. As long as the size was right. (Which, it wasn't.) When they both delved into the gift bag, and simultaneously drew out L-shaped lumps of cloth, they stared at each other, and blew up.

"_I don't want these! They're—they're—they've got some ugly wrestling guy's face on them!" _

"_How uncool! Red with green stripes? What do you take me for?"_

"_I thought they were festive!"_

"_Festive? At least the ones I got you were practical! You can wear them any day!"_

"_Who would be caught dead wearing this? Look at it! Have you taken a good look?"_

The second year, Soul smartly grabbed his gift and headed into his room. She sat cross-legged on the floor and unwrapped her's. He'd gotten her a cheesy cheap charm bracelet that she'd probably never wear, but she appreciated it, nonetheless. She'd gotten him socks again that year, just to see what would happen. He came out of his room empty-handed. She'd stuck the gift back in its box. They glanced at each other, and went about their business. It was a silent agreement.

She'd gotten him socks that year, black dress socks to match his pinstriped suit.

Their system worked well. They didn't ever blow up at each other for something as trivial as Christmas presents again. This year was the fifth one. She stared at the unprofessionally decorated box. This time she got nothing? It aggravated her. What did she do wrong? Why was he such a jerk? Or was he just stupid? Did he forget to put one in? She stuck her thumb under the paper, biting her lip. She rather hoped this was just some super-belated April Fool's day joke Black*Star and Soul had foolishly contrived together. It was amazing how low their respective IQs went down when they partnered up. She hoped. Maka jerked the paper away and sat gazing at the naked cardboard box, fingers hovering over the tab that would open up the mystery.

_It doesn't matter what he got me, I guess,_ she concluded, a little bit hurt. _It doesn't really matter. _

She pried the thing open. She rubbed stubbornly at the tears prickling her eyes. It was empty. Except for two embroidered red ribbons. She pulled them up and out, watching the gold thread catch on the lamplight.

The doorknob rolled. She jammed the ribbons back into the box.

A blast of frigid winter air hit her legs, sending up goosebumps. "It's cold!" exclaimed Soul, face stretched in a dusty pink as he shut the down closed behind him. He hung his jacket and scarf on the hook, and said, "I'm going to get some hot chocolate. Want any, Maka?"

When he turned around, she was watching him intently. "Maka?"

She blinked, startled. "Um. Yeah."

He trudged toward the kitchen, hands rubbing up and down his forearms. "Thanks, Soul. For the present." He froze in his steps.

She grabbed the box and headed to her room. They were really quite cute, the ribbons. She might wear them tomorrow.

_fin._

**A/N: **Happy Holidays, everyone! Ahaha, I'd been neglecting my challenge, so I scraped up something just this afternoon. I'm kind of hard-pressed for time, so I do apologize if it seems rough around the edges--but especially at the end. At first, this vignette was going to be extremely short, but it wouldn't shut itself up, so. I'd also like to take this time to thank everyone for the reviews they've given me. I didn't ask for any, but it was very kind of you. I love getting them.


	7. Thinking of We: Soul, Maka

Theme: 19) Happy

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**Thinking of We**

When he dreams about his future, he can't see anybody but her; in her bustless glory—bright smile, pigtail strings, frying pan, and book eyes.

He'll always wake up in the morning tasting sunny-side-ups in his nose and feeling the sunshine dance to his toes. And if it's not her, he thinks, it'll be him. He'll be stuffed in a silly, little girl's apron, under-cooking his pancakes and hoping she just laughs instead of throwing them back on the pan and telling him they need _at least_ five more minutes on the thing.

He'll always make fun of her frilly pillows, catch one before it makes it to his face, and throw it back, only to receive half a dozen in his gut. He'll remember to grin while this happens, so she starts grinning, too. The next day she'll pretend like she's just a little mad at him, but he sees her lips twitch when she yells at him, and it'll take all he has not to smirk idiotically back.

He'll remember to be cool, but, really, all he sees is her.

_fin._

**A/N:** Ah, it's been so long, I hope my claim is still in effect. Something short, and hopefully sweet. Thank you for reading, and have a pleasant day, if you please.


	8. Bathroom Talk: Soul, Maka

Theme: 28) _Flippant_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**Bathroom Talk**

Soul stared at the blades running across the length of his mouth. He leaned against the bathroom mirror, watching the light glint off the serrated edges before duly applying a toothbrush to them.

Sharp as ever. Cool.

His mouth was the epitome of minty-fresh when his bleary-eyed, pajama-clad partner trod into the bathroom that they had agreed to share from Day One. She took one half-open-eyed look at him and grabbed her toothbrush. "Put some pants on next time, Soul."

He muttered something under his breath, looking a mix of surly and embarrassed. Maka hovered between the shower and the toilet, scrubbing sudsy circles into her mouth, while waiting for Soul to finish up and give her access to the sink. Soul quickly drenched his face with sink water, then scooted politely to the side. Maka deftly spit into the sink as Soul straightened, his hand reaching out for the towel. As he dried down his face, his eyes landed on the straight, immaculate—but blunt—set of his technician's teeth. "Maka?" he uttered.

"Hm?" she replied, splashing water onto her face and letting it drip. With her eyes closed, she looked somewhat like a blind man walking. But she found her towel just the same.

"Are my teeth weird?"

The top half of her face revealed confusion. When the damp cotton had done its job, she hung it back around the towel bar. "Why? You think you have a cavity?" she asked.

"No." He stood in his lounging posture, nonchalantly gazing down at the floor. He only stood like that when he wanted distance. Glancing askance, she noticed he wasn't meeting her eyes.

"Then what's wrong, Soul?"

"Aaa, nevermind." Propping his arms up behind his head, he made a show of not caring as he marched out the bathroom.

"Soul," she said, "I think you have cool teeth."

_fin._

**A/N:** Something I wrote a while back, but never got to posting. Reading it over again, seems a little flat to me. But hopefully you'll like it. Thank you for reading, and have a pleasant day, if you please.


	9. Circumstance: Soul, Maka

Theme: 20) _Dance_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own_ Soul Eater._

**Circumstance  
**

He knew that when Maka leaned into him, when her arms draped around his neck, she was going to tell him something was wrong.

His unpartnered hands dropped. The music kept going. The pairs still swayed. Suddenly anxious, Soul reset his hands, trying not to break appearances. They met her slim, breakable waist, then slid hesitantly until they reached her hips.

He watched in quiet unease as her face, lips, mouth, eyes, tiptoed to his cheek. Her eyelashes cast down on his scarlet tie. Her soft, arrested breaths ghosted to his ears. "Soul, there's a witch at the dance."

His fingers flexed involuntarily, drummed against the dress over her skin. His eyes burned.

"Don't look."

He tried to clear his throat. "I won't," he responded, with some difficulty.

"I have a mirror in my purse." Maka glanced once into his eyes; they were large, purposeful, and slowly undid her arms from his neck. But Soul's hands remained at her hip. "Soul, let go," she pressed, looking a modicum confused.

"Yeah." He pulled his arms back, limply.

"Follow me out." This normally went unsaid. She broke the perimeter of their circle, and beamed at him encouragingly.

Soul just short of gaped at her. When he had re-adjusted his hands, he had felt it, realized it.

Maka had hips.

It wasn't the everyday Maka hips, the skinny, vertical kind of hips. It had the curved feel of an almost-woman. Tiny at the waist and a midget hourglass arc to the thigh.

"C'mon."

Soul wordlessly watched her turn on her heels and walk unassumingly toward an exit.

Maka had hips and a butt.

_fin._

**A/N:** When I saw Episode 50, I had to pull this out of the trash and stick it on here. Apologies for the crackiness. Please don't take it too seriously.


	10. Silk Tie: Soul, Maka

Theme: 29) _Effort_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**Silk Tie**

_A dress?_ She didn't recall putting on a dress. Her eyes roamed back and forth, but all she could gather was that she was wearing a dress and sitting prettily upright in a high-backed chair.

"Hi, Maka," came a smooth, creamy voice from behind the folds of an unfamiliar ceiling-to-floor-length curtain. A tall, lean figure stepped out from behind them and approached her, his eyes smoldering with . . . _with_ . . .

He bent down, gazing level with her. He took her hand, sending unwanted, icy shivers down the length of her spine. She took a sharp intake of breath, eyes widening, hands tensing. She attempted to stand up, or scoot backwards, but she found herself glued to the chair, utterly immobile.

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, half in panic.

He closed in on her, his breath warm against her florid cheeks. She felt the acute touch of his silk tie drop across her thigh. Illogically, she realized, her blood was rushing.

"Maka," he hummed melodically, "I want to tell you something . . ."

"What?" she demanded, voice grinding to a squeak at the end. "What is it?"

He held her eyes steadfastly, making sure she never looked away. Maka clenched her teeth, and tried hard to shut her eyes. It was seductive. He was being _really_ seductive.

"What?" she whispered weakly.

A sly smile danced onto his lips. "You . . ." His fingers . . . she thought . . . his fingers brushed up against the hem of her dress.

"I didn't mean what I said," he said to her slowly. Then, his voice dropped to the most provocative timbre she'd ever heard. "You don't have thick ankles." She felt him plant a kiss on . . .

Bright, terrifying sunlight.

Maka clutched her head and gave an inward, silent scream. Her eyes jumped from corner to corner, but her room looked absolutely undisturbed. The cropped, pink curtains were drawn apart, allowing the morning rays to stream in. Her chair was the same: short, round, and a minty shade of green; it looked nothing like the contraption that had kept her rigidly clamped down and forced her to sit through that . . . mentally _scarring_ episode.

_Just a nightmare. Calm down, Maka. Just a nightmare._

But her face felt hot.

She clambered out of bed, shuffling to the bathroom to slap some water on her face. She reached the door just as he passed out of it. Maka narrowed her eyes suspiciously at him—picking apart his gait, his expression, his everything—as if he had given her that dream on purpose. She couldn't shake her paranoia.

"Maka, you okay?" he asked, brows furrowed in concern over her hunched appearance.

"Yeah," she responded, averting her eyes. He turned around to watch her shut the bathroom door.

Soon, she was staring up at the mirror, the water making trails and collecting at her chin. He hadn't said a word about that old insult in nearly four years. Why did she just have a dream about it? Maka shifted her attention to the topic of sensitivity: her ankles. She pivoted them, observing them closely at different angles. Did they look big?

_They're slender, aren't they? _

Feeling somewhat foolish, Maka huffily exited the bathroom. Catching sight of him again, her face resumed its stormy features. "Stupid," she muttered inaudibly.

"I got your breakfast," he said, pointing at the pancake-topped plate on the table.

"Let me get dressed first," she shot back. Those words. Those words didn't sound right. Again sensing the blood collecting in her face, she hurried into her bedroom and slammed the door.

* * *

"Eeh, Maka, why are you wearing so many layers? It's hot outside."

"Wh-what are you saying?" she remarked. "I'm just wearing a jacket. It's chilly in the morning."

"But you're wearing three jackets, and sweats. We live in Nevada."

She ignored him and jabbed a fork into her pancakes. It was better if she didn't have to try to make sense of things.

"Are they good? I added extra sugar this time."

"Yeah," she muttered reluctantly, "they're good." They sat in an awkward—at least, it seemed to her—silence for the rest of the meal. After she had cleaned her plate and drained her cup of juice, Maka just couldn't contain it anymore.

"Soul. Do I have thick ankles?" She glared hard at the edge of the table, fingers pulling obsessively at a stray thread fraying off the seam of her outermost jacket.

"Huh?"

"Do I?" she repeated, feeling like she was about to choke on her own throat at any moment. To her neverending horror, he dropped to the side to examine her legs underneath the table; they were pressed unmoving against the kitchen floor. After what felt like many, many seconds, he popped back up. "Well?" she insisted.

First, he guffawed, quietly and mostly to himself. "I thought you had tripped or something, but your ankles aren't swollen."

She inhaled sharply. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He propped his elbow on the table and gazed over at her with a strange expression. "They're fine, Maka." He smiled cryptically. "You have skinny ankles."

She shot up and left the table. "Okay," she responded. She felt really warm inside.

_fin._

**A/N: **The idea of Soul seducing Maka in her sleep was too good to pass up. Hurhur. Concerning the next drabble, would any of you prefer another Soul/Maka, or would it be alright for me to post a couple Black*Star drabbles I've had sitting in my computer? Just asking. Thank you so much for reading, and have a pleasant day.


	11. Learning by Example: Soul, Maka

Theme: 28) _Flippant_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater._

**Learning by Example**

Maka's first kiss was not all too pleasant. She remembered to close her eyes a second too late, and ended up having that terrifying pink pucker emblazoned in her mind for the many never-ending seconds they maintained lip-to-lip contact. He angled his head too high, giving her neck a crick. Their front teeth accidentally collided. His breath felt weird in her mouth. She pulled away too quick, too reluctantly. "S-sorry," she apologized, flustered. He stared at her.

The situation was not cool at all.

* * *

She had her lips clamped down shut the whole way home. If that's how kissing was, she thought in embarrassment, then she was never kissing again, if she could help it. She wasn't sure who messed up, but she was sure that that was not how it was supposed to go. Well, she ruminated, it was his fault for getting too far ahead of himself. They hadn't even started hand-holding yet and he was just diving in without her permission.

"Oh, you're back. How was the date?"

Maka closed the door behind her. "Um," she replied, then clamped her lips back together. It just hit her. She hadn't even thought of it. What if it was her fault for being romantically inept? Was the horrible kiss her fault, then? She suddenly wanted to cradle her face in her hands. Humiliating. She ruined her own date.

Soul frowned wryly. "Are you okay, Maka?"

"Fine," she answered mechanically, surprised she could form something on her lips that wasn't going to blow her stupid secret. She sat down on the end of the couch and picked up her recently reheated bowl of carrot soup; she didn't even have energy to thank him. Soul sat on the other end, and the television was still going, but he was still looking at her.

"Did he break up with you?" he asked delicately.

"No," she said petulantly.

"What happened?" he prodded. "You look funny."

Would it be okay to tell him? Maka wondered. Soul had been her partner for years now. He could usually read her like a book. He wouldn't laugh at her, would he? Her hand went up to her mouth and rubbed at it gingerly.

Soul suddenly went still, eyes going round. "Did he kiss you?"

Maka turned to face him, startled. Her hand jerked down immediately to her side. Too late. She was already guilty. "N-no!" she responded belatedly.

Soul's eyes flicked back to the television screen, expression fading from concern to disinterest. It wasn't exactly the reaction she was expecting. He wasn't even cracking a Maka-chop-worthy joke. He didn't even ask about it.

"It wasn't good," she uttered inaudibly, unexpectedly despondent. He glanced askance at her. She was looking down. The TV was still going.

Finally, she mustered a weak, "Thanks for the soup, Soul. Goodnight." She got up, ready to trudge into bed and think about how she was going to dump the guy the next morning. She heard Soul shift in his seat. When she turned around, he was no longer there. She sighed, before turning back around and bumping into something that she was certain wasn't there a second ago.

"Did he do something to you?" Soul asked her, his gaze penetrating. "You don't seem happy, Maka."

She took a short, surprised breath, blinking rapidly at him. He smelled sweet, like carrots and the detergent in her blankets. His breath was warm, comforting; she wasn't alarmed by his propinquity at all. It took a her a little while to formulate her thoughts; she didn't even know what she was saying until she was saying it. "It was . . . probably my fault," she admitted, her words coming out in uncontrolled strings. "I don't know how to kiss," she whispered, insistent red blooming across her cheeks.

Soul paused. "You . . . don't know how to kiss?" he repeated, with a hint of incredulity.

"Don't make fun of me, Soul," Maka replied sullenly, unable to look at him in the face. Soul chuckled. Maka tensed. "It's not that funny. It's really stupid."

He stopped. "Maka, I don't believe you," he remarked playfully.

"Yeah, well, that's what happened," Maka pouted. "I messed up. I'm going to bed now."

He grinned. "No, that's not what I meant." He glanced at the wall then back at her, choosing his words. "I mean, I don't think it's your fault, Maka."

"But I--"

Soul smirked. "I think he's just a bad kisser."

"Well, how am I supposed to know?" Maka retorted, exasperated. "It's not like I--"

He leaned down, until he was eye level with her. Maka's next words died on her lips. "He was just a bad kisser," Soul reiterated softly, moving closer. She stood there, terrified and frozen, until she felt his fingers gently tilt her face up. Her eyes closed. Their lips met. It tasted sweet. He tasted sweet.

He pulled away. She searched his face. He suddenly looked embarrassed. "That . . . that wasn't romantic or anything," he refuted. "I was just showing you an example."

Maka broke into a smile. She could learn by example.

_fin._

**A/N:** Ahaha. Sorry for all the sap and cheese. When this fluffy plot bunny gnawed at me, it wouldn't let go. And, wow, almost a thousand words. What an anomaly for me. :)


	12. His and Her Eyes: Maka, Spirit

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_, and am making no profit from this fanfiction.

**His and Her Eyes**

"Hi, Maka!" cooed the tentative father. The squishy baby with caramel-colored tufts of hair leaked drool onto his sleeve. He only laughed, infatuated with the tiny soul that could fit in his hands. "Maka, I'm Papa. Mama is resting right now." The infant girl gave him a little baby-smirk with her toothless gums. "You're very pretty, Maka. You look just like Mama."

"Kaaa . . ." she replied, staring at him cross-eyed.

"But Mama said you have my eyes. See?" He brought his face very close to her. She wriggled her head in his hands, struggling to focus on the gargantuan object in front of her. Her eyes strayed everywhere, trying to take it all in, trying to figure out whatever it was. She wriggled more, clearly uncomfortable with all the information her eyes were giving her.

Then, her baby eyes landed on the green mirrors. She stopped moving, transfixed with the color they were. She reached for them, but let her pudgy arm drop mid-action when the mirrors were momentarily filmed over with tan, then green again. She saw more green in the green on his face. She clapped her hands together happily.

He smiled. "Maka's got my eyes."

_fin._

**A/N: **Inspired by my horrendously cheesy dad. Really, really old scrap. Hope it's enjoyable.


	13. Crystals: Maka, Soul

Theme: 37) _Ice_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**Crystals**

Maka's subzero extremities clenched compulsively around the thick, pink winter coat. Her nose felt so cold that it could have easily chipped completely off her face, and she would have remained oblivious. _Whose idea was this?_ groused Maka, grinding welcome friction with her teeth in tortured bitterness. She stared out into the icy arena, and her eyes darkened in recollection. _Black Star._

As if responding to her unspoken gripe, the male in question gave an obnoxious snort of laughter, his cheeks a cheerful pink in the frigid wind. "Tsubaki, wasn't this a great idea? Something only the great me could have come up with!" Black Star exulted in jubilation. Tsubaki gave him her special smile, nodding her agreement.

Patti's sharp peals of laughter could be heard from a slight distance. Maka's attention diverted to the Thompson sisters, as always, struggling to have Kid overcome his personal issues. "My shoelaces," wailed Kid, tears falling thickly onto the mismatched laces. "My shoelaces! I have to tie them _appropriately_—"

"Get onto the ice already, Kid!" screeched Liz, wrenching him by the arm.

"Get on the ice with these hideous things on my feet, Liz?" spluttered Kid, as if she'd just asked him to behead himself.

"They look fine!" Liz gave her own pair of skates a wilted look. "At least yours aren't an unsightly shade of pink," she input, which only appeared to amplify Kid's growing hysteria. He lunged at her feet, grabbing the skates with his matching mittened hands. "I'll trade you!"

"No," she roared in protest, "forget the wacky shoelaces, Kid! Just forget it and enjoy yourself for once!" Kid blubbered a feeble refusal. "Patti," ordered the eldest Thompson, "grab Kid." Patti giggled and wrapped her arms around his torso, throwing him over her shoulder like a potato sack and obediently following her sister to the makeshift rink.

Maka watched with increasing nausea. She was suddenly immensely grateful that her partner didn't behave like an inane five-year-old.

"Maka, aren't you going to get on the ice?"

Maka shook her head wryly. "Now's not time. Shouldn't we be reporting to Shinigami, instead of renting out ice skates and fooling around on this frozen lake?"

Soul chuckled, a puff of icy breath escaping from between blue lips. "Just take it easy once in a while, Maka. C'mon, even Kid's having fun."

Maka's eyes darted to the subject at hand. Former objections seemingly forgotten, Kid was now establishing perfectly carved figure-eights onto the pristine, frosty surface; he was completely absorbed. Maka sighed, defeated. "I don't know, Soul. I'm kind of cold already, so—"

Soul extended a gloved hand. "You can skate with me, and it won't be so cold."

Maka pursed her lips. "Alright," she said, and took his hand.

Xxxxxxx

Maka allowed herself to smile, one arm stretched out, the other securely with Soul. The tingly sensation of chilled air beneath her limbs was, to say the least, refreshing. Ice skating, she realized belatedly, was exciting. Maka spied Kim skirting along the perimeter, all the way on the opposite side. Maka set her jaw, challenging herself to skate to the other end, with no strings attached.

"Soul."

"Hm?"

"I can handle it from here. I think I've got the hang of it."

Soul didn't question her. He scrutinized her determined expression, then simply released her hand. But if she thought he'd leave her side for a second, she had another thing coming.

_Alright, Here goes._ Maka gently pushed her left skate, gliding a few short feet across the frozen expanse. She suppressed the impulse to grin at her triumph. _This is easy! We should do this more often! Death City—_

"TSUBAKI!" exploded from a familiar mouth, nearly sending Maka face-first into the ice. "Watch me do a triple jump-kick three-sixty combo on this icy stage, hahaaha!"

"Black Star, please!" gasped Tsubaki, eyebrows drawn in worry.

The participants on the little lake stopped where they were, eyes gravitating toward the spectacle. Black Star launched himself into the air in a flurry of blue and black, his silver skates sending flecks of slush into the atmosphere.

Maka felt it before she heard it.

The ground gave a terrifying jolt beneath her. She saw, with open-mouthed disbelief, Black Star's skate cleave into the impermanent ice, great cracks snaking out like the veins of a Black Widow's web. They were caught unguarded. Faces twisted into short-lived indignation and impending anguish. Mouths gaped like dead fish. An incensed _"Black Star!"_ on everyone's lips—

And then they were sent plunging into the freezing water.

_fin._

**A/N:** Written for the season. Oh, Black Star makes me laugh. :)


	14. Sitting in a Tree: Maka, Soul

Theme: 1) _Rain_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater._

**Sitting in a Tree**

The firmament was overcast, weighed by the threat of rain. They were sitting on the couch when it happened.

Maka Albarn was curled trimly on the couch, slender legs tucked beneath her, and a recently-acquired novel cracked open upon her lap. Soul Eater Evans was slouched on the opposite end of the upholstery, counterbalancing Maka's diligent stature like a leaden anchor.

Maka's nimble fingers traced the edge of the page, before deftly flipping it over. "Soul," began Maka casually, "pass me the popcorn, will you?"

Soul's scarlet irises flickered to her. He reached for the bucket, and held it out in her direction. Maka leaned sideways gratefully, fingers just brushing the glossy surface of the container.

"Maka, I like you."

The few fluffy kernels that had made it into her palm fell out and soundlessly into the cleft of the sofa. Maka gulped wordlessly at him, her emerald eyes searching him for signs of joking. Soul gazed back as unflinchingly as if he'd just confessed that he'd gone off and killed Blair or something equally grievous.

And there it was. The irreproachable proof of his candor: the tell-tale dust of pink across the bridge of his nose. She'd only ever seen such a vulnerable expression on his face when he was confronted with scantily-clad women, or strategically-announced pop quizzes. But, here and now, it was only her staring with shock.

Something guttered futilely out of her throat, but the utterance failed to convey any lucid thought. Maka clumsily clambered off the couch, her pupils never leaving his. The tome clapped shut against the floor.

"Sorry, Soul," she gasped uncomfortably. She finally tore her eyes away, scissored across the room, stuffed her feet into her boots, opened the door, and shut it with an audible click.

Soul was left a little more than open-mouthed.

* * *

Soul had been walking for twenty minutes before he found Maka just where he anticipated she'd be. He glanced around, scrutinizing the brambles and the settled soil. He idly scratched his scalp, feeling embarrassment burn into the back of his neck. His treacherous eyes wandered up the spine of the tree, resting apprehensively on the figure seated on the branch. She observed him expectantly, expression meek but guarded. "Maka," he cleared his throat, "Maka, you can just . . . forget what I said. Sorry."

She pressed her lips thinly together. After a while, she motioned him up with her hand. Taken aback, but assuaged, he followed her instructions and climbed up.

"I knew I'd find you here."

Maka mumbled an affirmative. Up here, above the training ground forest floor, it was as if the world had pushed the mute button. Soul didn't know what else to say. He'd already apologized, taken it back. "Maka?"

"Sorry I ran out on you like that," said Maka. "I didn't know what I was supposed to do, or say. I guess it runs in the family, huh?" She cocked an ash-brown eyebrow at him, a wry smile painted upon her lips.

Soul shrugged, feeling a bit more agreeable now that she seemed to be back on speaking terms with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Maka's nose wrinkle and her eyes cross. Now, _that_ was a weird expression to give him; it was pretty uncalled for. "What's the matter?"

Maka gave the button of her nose a quick swipe, and peered up with one eye, the other closed tightly in caution.

Soul's face fell. _Shoot, it's raining._

Maka did not seem intent on moving anytime soon. Maka felt something thick and warm drape oppressively over her head. She lifted the lapel of a familiar jacket off her right cheek. "Soul," she muttered uncertainly, "I . . . don't need your jacket."

"I'm not going to take it back. That'd be an uncool thing to do," he responded gruffly. "Plus, you'll catch a cold if you're staying out in the rain like this."

Maka gazed into his petulant expression. A reluctant smile broke across her face like the sun out of the clouds. "I don't think I'll catch a cold."

Soul snorted in disbelief. "Maka, you're unbelievable. You're not even wearing-" He stopped abruptly, mid-sentence, staring at their unexpectedly twined hands.

Maka leaned into him, not fully at ease, but more receptive. "Thanks for liking me," she murmured, her feather-like breath grazing his nose.

Soul scoffed, not unkindly. "It's not like I can help it."

* * *

**A/N:** Written a very long time ago, but decided to let it not gather dust. I apologize as it is cheesy, and not quite satisfactory. Since I'm suddenly very keen on writing again, I hope I can post some new pieces up soon! Thank you for being patient, and taking the time to read this. Have a musical day.


	15. Rumors: Maka, Spirit

Theme: 12) _Foiled Again_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own _Soul Eater._

**Rumors**

The sound of a meat knife scraping against the bottom of a plate scraped right into Maka's ears. There was a deliberate clatter as the knife fell back against the dish, and Maka felt compelled to look up. Spirit Albarn wedged a large portion of steak into his mouth, and mindfully masticated it, his eyes canvassing his daughter.

Maka grimaced, swiftly jabbing a neat cube of meat and extracting it from her fork with perfectly-aligned teeth. She swallowed before addressing him. "Papa, is something the matter?"

Spirit appeared to puff up in indignation at the query. He eyed her critically, disregarding the odd stares the other patrons were giving him and his daughter. "Maka," he hissed in what he was deluded into thinking was a hushed tone, "I've heard rumors recently."

Maka's brow dipped in skepticism. "Rumors about what, Papa?"

"Rumors that there's something between you and that Evans boy," Spirit sputtered at an enormous volume.

Maka coughed into her drink, eyes flashing from corner to corner of the establishment. She fastened a sharp glare at her father. "Papa," she reprimanded him, "you're talking too loud."

Spirit was stricken by the lack of immediate denial on his beloved offspring's part. "W-wait, Maka. You aren't really—it's not true that—"

Maka's cheeks tinged a warm color beneath the golden lights. "Papa, Soul and I have been dating for over half a year now."

Spirit's heart nearly stopped beating. His legs suddenly felt as if they had been flooded by rocks and concrete, anchoring him to the seat. "My little Maka," he choked, eyes watering dangerously, forcing Maka to take on an expression of panic. "My little Maka . . . dating . . . is . . . Evans . . ."

"Papa, calm down," she urged, mortified by his reaction. "You know Soul," bubbled out of concern from her lips, "he's a gentleman and—"

Spirit tearfully placed his hands over her own petite set. "Maka," she realized with alarm that his eyes suddenly began to blaze, "that bastard hasn't _done_ anything to you, has he? Besmirched you? Corrupted—"

"No, no, he hasn't, Papa!" cried Maka, both flustered and exasperated. "Don't jump to such outrageous conclusions." She eyed him critically, however. "You honestly didn't expect me to grow up an old maid, did you?"

Spirit shook his head despondently. "Of course not, Maka. I've always wanted grandchildren, but _now_ is far too soon!"

"Papa," Maka whispered hotly, "I'm twenty-two, and that kind of thing is none of your concern!"

"But, Maka—"

She instantaneously silenced him by flipping the knife skillfully into her hand and setting it deep into the meat.

* * *

Wails could be heard coming from Shinigami's quarters.

"T-the rumors were true!" issued thickly from between snot and tears.

"Now, now, Death Scythe," Shinigami consoled him, handing the poor soul another tissue, "I'm sure many fathers have to deal with this at one point in their lives."

Moisture continued to well up in Spirit's beryl-colored eyes. "But, my sweet, little Maka . . ."

Shinigami smiled sympathetically, and patted him gently on the skull. "She's not so little anymore, now, Death Scythe."

* * *

**A/N:** Yes, it's pretty much utter crack, contrived by yours truly at one in the morning. Please don't take it too seriously.


	16. A Game: Soul, Maka

_Themes: 11, Jump; 41, Skyward_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own _Soul Eater_.

**A Game**

She asks him to kiss her on a Wednesday afternoon, after a one-sided game of basketball. Naturally, she loses. He laughs at her as she sits, defeated, on the park bench, watching him dribble up and down the court with a poor attempt at a scowl on her face.

"This game isn't fair," she insists, taking another swig of water. She bats her ponytail out of the way, wiping at the sheen of sweat on her face.

"C'mon, Maka," Soul goads her playfully, "it's easy. You just have to practice. Let's go one more."

"You just want an excuse to win again," she replies disapprovingly. Basketball really does favor the taller player. Even if she's faster, lighter on her feet, and more flexible, he still has the upper hand because whenever she tries for a basket, he blocks her with his impossibly tall body; and whenever he goes for a basket, try as she might, she can't manage to get her arms high enough to knock the ball from its trajectory. It frustrates her to no end. Her mental musing manifests itself into a groan of dissent. "No way, Soul."

He stops dribbling—show-off, she can't help but think—and smiles lazily, approaching her. "No?"

"I said no," she repeats, though his face doesn't fall as she expects it to. "I'll watch you, if you want, but I'm just going to lose again. I told you, it's not a fair game."

"I play fair," he objects. "What's not fair about it?"

"You're too tall."

He openly snickers at her for that one.

"No, I mean, I'm at a disadvantage because you're so much taller than I am."

He leans over her, amused. "I'm supposed to be taller than you, Maka. I'm a guy. It's not cool for a guy to be shorter than a girl."

She stands, and is once again reminded of her height against his. "Fine, if I play again, you have to promise not to block me."

"What?" The corner of his lips curl up, and it looks as if he's making an effort not to smile. "What does that have to do with anything? Are you saying it's not fair that I'm _trying_ not to let you win?"

She pokes him in the chest. "I'm saying that I can't block you back!" She takes a step closer to him, until they're practically chest to chest. She tries not to be proud that she's gone up a cup size in the past two years, but after all the sardonic remarks about her bust—or lack thereof—it's nice to tease him with the irony of it all. She notices with a sly smile that he's trying not to look down her jersey.

He takes the ball in both hands, voice suddenly serious. "Try it. I know you can do it, Maka." He doesn't like to see her doubt herself.

She frowns, but obliges. Her arm shoots out, but he anticipates it, and tosses it into the air. They both watch it wobble in space for a moment before it comes back down. He leaps for it, and she backs up so they don't crash into each other. His snatches it back, brings it down to his waist and takes a step, feinting left. She twists against him, pressing her body against his right side so his arms are wedged tightly to his body. She feels him slip it from one hand to the other, and he bounces it against the pavement. She runs for it, catching it in both hands. She instinctively turns and launches it at the basket, but like her shadow, he's there. They both jump simultaneously, arms raised. They bump chests, but just as predicted, he knocks it backward.

It ricochets off the fence and back into his grip. "C'mon, Maka. Try something creative!" he yells, retreating. She huffs, because he's turning it into some kind of combat challenge. "Remember, you may think you're at a disadvantage, but that only means—"

"There's an advantage you haven't thought of yet," Maka murmurs contemplatively, brows furrowing. She stills, watching him.

He raises a single brow at her.

Suddenly, she knows what to do. She dashes straight for him. He doesn't try to elude her. He knows things won't work if she uses the traditional method, and he's curious about her new one. As the space between them dwindles, he automatically yanks his arms skyward. Her arm flies out, but not up. She grabs a fistful of his jersey with a triumphant smile.

"Hey!" he protests. "That's against the rules!"

She reels him in. His eyes go wide. "What are you—"

"Kiss me, Soul."

"Wh—what?" His voice cracks. His arms go limp and the ball drops to the ground.

She gets on her tip-toes, her lips just grazing his cheek. "Kiss me," she reiterates softly.

His eyes seem to grow heavy as he stares at her parted mouth. He licks his lips. "Are you sure?" he asks nervously, although his body's already reacting to her request. He leans down and kisses her.

Maka smiles, her free hand taking his. She's found her advantage.

* * *

**A/N: **Over a year without so much as a peep? I have nothing to say in my defense. Apparently, this is what I like to do instead of studying for exams.

Any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading.


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